


I wanna be yours

by LaStrega (orphan_account)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Consensual Kink, Denial of Feelings, Elio is a brat and a tease, Light Bondage, M/M, None of that underage shit, Oliver is a rich hoe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rope Bondage, Teasing, They are both responsible adults, slow burn (it tries to be)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-07-01 23:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LaStrega
Summary: During their stay in New York Marzia drags Elio along to a play party where they get invited to a private workshop and meet the elusive Oliver, who makes an offer Elio doesn't want to refuseIs there a chance this could blossom into something more or does Elio follow his habit of wasting far too many weeks fighting his feelings before he has to travel back home?





	1. Do I wanna know?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aceteroid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aceteroid/gifts).



> So.  
> This is my comeback after almost half a year of writers block, depression and general life changes.  
> I have watched the movie and fallen in love with the chemistry between the characters and things sort of got rolling when some Scenes happened and I got inspired to write this
> 
> I am in the Lifestyle as well, as a rope bunny and a sub. I haven't been practising in a bit because of my mental state, but I want to go back. I am not very active but I hope to know enough to make this believable
> 
> This is for Aceteroid, because she made me watch this beautiful movie in the first place <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning :)  
> I might have confused some of you because I just added the rest of the chapter to the teaser but I still hope you like it

The music is pulsating or it is the heart inside his chest, way too excited and overwhelmed by the atmosphere in the club, the various shades of black, the sharp shine of metal and the soft shimmer of leather?!

Someone walks past him and there is a Mona Lisa smile from a face that looks age – and genderless. Dark eyes watch him from behind a silken mask and the smile widens, the curves of painted lips turn up and a husky voice calls him _ethereal_.

He stands, rooted to the spot and Marzia pokes him to shake him from his stupor while in the cage behind her a woman is dancing sinuously, her hips moving in hypnotising circles, her red hair alight in the changing lights, metal glinting from her neck and her breasts.

In one of the darkened corners a man with hair that changes colour with the lights is holding a girl in his arms while he attaches ropes to a ring hanging from the ceiling, his moves sure and practised. She looks blissed out, long hair obscuring most of her face while he pulls and tightens.

“…re you sure you are okay?”

 Marzia’s voice jolts him from his staring and he blinks at her, momentarily stunned by everything that goes on around them. Her facial expression is slightly impatient and worried so he nods slowly.

All the noise and colours overwhelm him. There is the sound of slapping and someone shrieking in delight, pained moans and giggles, Marzia in her outfit, her body hugged by expensive black lace in the pattern of flowers and intricate swirls.

She looks so different to the summers in Crema in which she wears shorts and easy shirts, her hair wild, her face free from make-up.

Here her lips are painted a dark red, looking like ripe cherries in the darkness. Her eyes are lined and her cheeks contoured sharply. Her pierced nipples glint in the swirling lights and her body is covered but revealed all at once.

She truly is beautiful and he can understand the stares, is looking at her himself and who can blame him? They have been on again off again in those endless summers, in the heat, apricot juice sticking to their naked skin.

But now they have called it quits, travelled to New York and Marzia promptly went on the hunt for someone new. And something made her decide that this is going to be her new hunting grounds. _Club of O_ is the name of this establishment that she found through a ‘very nice Americano’.

She has always been interested in this. Elio remembers her sharp nails digging into his back, her requests to pull her hair, her enjoyment of his hands grabbing her ass a little too firmly.

“Come on, Elio!” she shouts over the music and pulls him along, her nails painted the same shade as her lipstick, the dark red a strong contrast to his pale skin. Somewhere in his brain he wants to paint his nails the same colour. It would look very pretty but at the same time he already looks so waifish, lanky and pale-skinned, dark curls and a rather soft face. A ‘twink’ Marzia had called him with a wide grin, her dark eyes dancing with amusement.

A petite girl with thick hair in a severe braid and a whip in her gloved hands who is holding a kneeling boy by a leash in her free hand waves into their direction as they approach her. The boy is dressed in trousers made from a dark material Elio identifies as silicone, over knee, high-heeled boots and not much else. His eyes are downcast but he seems to enjoy the attention the girl is giving him by combing her fingers through his hair.

“Marzia! How lovely of you to come!” she greets them and. To say that Elio is confused is quite an understatement. Marzia knows people like her? People clad in leather and silicone with whips and gloves, having collared and leashed companions?

On second thought it is actually not that much of a surprise.

“Ah, this is the Americano who suggested we come, Elio”, Marzia explains and grins openly at him. “Esther, this is my friend Elio. Elio, this is Esther and her sub Simon.”

The kneeling boy gives a shy little wave and looks up at them with a friendly smile on his open and rounded face. He is not what Elio would call striking or handsome but he has a certain air about him and when Esther hands him a bottle of water with a smile, his face comes alight and he has a glint in his eyes that makes him look oddly content and fulfilled.

“I… uhm… lovely to meet you, Esther” Elio greets her and wants the ground to swallow him whole. Why is he this awkward? And then he remembers that he spends most days transcribing and composing classical music holed up in Crema or Le Havre and the most social interaction that he has is the dinners with his grandparents or the late afternoon reading sessions with his parents. So yes. He knows why.

Esther seems to take pity and smiles at him, offering Simon’s services to get him a drink. He declines, sitting down on a cushion, leaning against a column and letting the music vibrate through his body. It is so profoundly different from everything he has ever experienced but it is not bad per se. He just wishes that he could have had his first experience in a calmer environment.

So he excuses himself to the toilet and as soon as he enters, meandering past several people dressed in lace, leather, metal or nothing at all, the door closes behind him and the thumping of the bass isn’t rattling his bones any longer. The hit of the cold water he slaps into his face certainly helps matters as well and he takes a deep breath, watching himself in the mirrors. Dark curls, pale skin, a black shirt and tight trousers. That is all Marzia could force him into.

He is about to leave the toilet when someone walks past him. He is tall and blond, wearing a dress shirt of all things and his voice has a lovely timbre when he thanks Elio. He smells heavenly as well but as soon as Elio feels the first frissons of _want_ inside his chest, Marzia calls out to him.

He sighs and shakes himself, stepping through the crowded spaces and coming closer, ready to cuss her out for maybe possibly cockblocking him when he notices the girl next to her.

She is _beautiful_. Long hair and pouty lips, wearing something that looks like a schoolgirl outfit and while Elio normally does not condone sexualising something like school because his dad is a proper professor of history, he certainly can enjoy her long legs and dizzying curves in the short skirt, the white almost see-through blouse.

Through the cheeky gaps in the fabric he can make out black strings criss-crossing over her skin and he notices her mischievous grin a little too late.

 _Crap_. But he cannot help it. He is a sucker for beautiful people.

She greets him and her voice has a soft and lilting accent, sounding like sin and he would like to hear her under different circumstances. Her name is Roxanne and she looks just like the song was made for her, for the sweet and playful smile on her face.

Marzia is staring as well but who can blame her, who can blame anyone for looking?

And this angel, this devil in disguise with a silver collar glinting around her neck, the ring enticing him to pull, to see her eyes flutter shut in rapture, this angel leans closer to them, filling Elio's nostrils with the scent of flowers, of jasmine, soft and not overbearing. And then she speaks and Elio has to concentrate as her hair is tickling his nose and her breasts are pressing up against his arm.

"If you want to enjoy something like this in a calmer environment, I can give you my information. I am very sure that Oliver wouldn't mind." 


	2. Have you no idea that you're in deep?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA Elio is a thirsty bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you like my endeavours :)

Saturday dawns and Marzia has taken him along to the place this elusive ‘Oliver’ lives. A tall building rises in the middle of bustling Manhattan, maybe two blocks away from Central Park.

Whoever this Oliver guy is, he must have money because Roxanne instructed them to press the PH button. Marzia is standing close to him, her curls tickling his nose.

Today she is definitely wearing something a lot less seductive but she still manages to look sexy in a shirt, a sports bra and black leggings.

The elevator is gliding upwards and Elio can almost feel his pulse skyrocketing the closer they get to their destination. He watches himself in the reflective walls of the elevator and takes a deep breath. A pale guy wearing a striped shirt and gym trousers stares back. Decidedly less sexy but it is all about movement as Roxanne so kindly told them.

There is a ding and the elevator stops, the door slides open and. It is just a hallway with a door at the end. Number 63. The number is golden on a door that has a reddish hue to it, polished and beautiful. Momentarily Elio distracts himself with trying to find out what kind of wood it is made of when it suddenly opens.

Marzia must’ve rung without his notice. Stunning how much he doesn’t realise when he is distracted. Like with composing. When he writes, everything else vanishes and only the score remains in his brain, around him and pulls him in until he finishes it.

A hug interrupts his musings and he smells jasmine. Roxanne. And her beautiful mouth, her laughter that is surprisingly open. Here, in daylight, she is just a young woman. A remarkably beautiful young woman with a great ass and wonderful breasts, but so very different from the seductive vixen that he saw in the club.

“Come in, you two! You are actually the first to come, so Oliver is still preparing some snacks in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind” she says and lets them in, smiling and barefoot. “Oh and please leave your shoes on the rack, he has mattresses and cushions on the floor. If you want to go get changed, the guest bathroom is over there” she adds and points to a door on the right but Elio is far too occupied with staring.

The hallway opens up to a vast area that has to be the living room. It has exquisite wooden floors and a truly stunning view of Central Park. As Elio is toeing off his shoes he can hear faint jazz music from around the corner but he is far too stunned by the display of mattresses, cushions and suspension points.

“Oh, that hammock is mine!” Marzia shouts and boards it with a wide grin as soon as her shoes are off and Elio laughs, a rather unattractive snorting noise if he has to say so himself but he owns it and enjoys Marzia’s happy humming.

“Does anyone want drinks? Or am I only slaving away in the kitchen for nothing?” someone asks with an amused tone and it is the voice from the toilet at the party. A deep, pleasant timbre, blond hair, tall and.

Elio’s brain short-circuits.

Fucking hell.

He is tall, built like a Roman god, like one of those statues his dad likes so much. Barefoot like Roxanne, which shouldn’t be as attractive as it is on him. A blue shirt that makes his bronzed skin look even better if possible, sets off the light brown hair, the almost unnaturally white teeth. He is wearing white linen trousers paired with the dress shirt and on anyone else it would have looked ridiculous but on him?! He looks like a model. Unfair and uncalled for.

“Lovely to meet you two. My name is Oliver and I am the organiser of these events” he greets them, hands Elio a drink and what a smile does with that face should be considered illegal. Elio steadfastly ignores Marzia waggling her eyebrows at him from the hammock.

“I… Elio, hi” he finally manages and wants to go die quietly in a corner, hopefully very far away from this fine specimen. Maybe someone could have warned him about  _this_. This smile, the warm, large hand enveloping his, the oceanic eyes crinkling charmingly in the corners, this fucking voice repeating his name.

“Elio.”

A syllable and his blood is rushing south. His name from those full lips and he has to suppress a shiver, swallow audibly. At least it sounds terribly loud to him. Oliver just has a presence, his tallness, the easy way he moves around while greeting the other guests that are slowly trickling in.

“ _Fuck_ _me_ , Marzia…” he breathes and leans against the wooden column next to her hammock, watching the newcomers greet Oliver.

Oliver.

“No thanks, I’ve given up on that, Elio. But you seriously need to get laid. He just needed to look at you, say your name and you almost came on the spot. I honestly can’t blame you though because have you looked at that guy? His voice alone makes me reconsider wearing my nice panties today.”

Her grin is salacious and he feels the heat climbing into his cheeks, hisses her name. Her grin just widens and she takes a rather loud sip from her drink, her lips curving into a smile around the glass straw and her eyebrows rising in amusement.

“ _Fuck off_ ” he mouths at her and gets up to get a snack from the kitchen, ignoring her giggling. The kitchen itself is large and modern, a lot of open space and polished surfaces. Not like the slightly messy old and homey kitchen they have in Crema but it has a lot of charm as well, the pots and pans in neat rows, knives in a stand and spices in a rack hanging from the wall. Slightly impersonal but the food spread looks and smells delicious and as if the person working in this lavish space actually knows how to cook.

“Choose whatever you like, Elio. I have little stickers for everything. Blue is kosher, green is vegetarian and that little V means vegan” a voice behind him explains and he startles so much that he almost drops his drink but he catches himself and looks up with a hammering heart.

Oliver. He must have moved silently or at least in a way that Elio didn’t notice him approaching. And this close Elio can actually smell him, feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him and it makes everything even worse. Oliver smells so fucking nice that it makes him dizzy, some expensive aftershave no doubt. And this close, his eyes look even bluer, even more beautiful, that odd mixture of green, grey and blue. And they are observing him. As if he is the most fascinating thing.

One thing shakes Elio out of his stupor and his way too obvious staring. “Kosher?” he asks while the music in the background changes from jazz to something a little more chill and the first people fish ropes from bags and small suitcases. “Are you Jewish?”

“Not practising anymore, no. I still wear my Star and I visit the Synagogue sometimes but I mostly stay out of it. Kosher cooking is just a part of my routine and I have Jewish friends so I want to carter to them” Oliver explains and grins slightly, leaning against the countertop, looking relaxed and at ease, his presence domineering but not oppressive. “So. Choose whatever you like and please don’t leave crumbs on the sofa or the mattresses or else I’ll have to punish you.”

His tone is light and joking, his eyes crinkling at the corners but Elio still needs to swallow, looks at the toned arms, the big hands, the way his body is fluent even in stillness. 

Images run amuck in Elio's brain, those hands around his throat, those full lips against his sensitive ears, fingers burying themselves in dark curls, pulling at them, a sharp pain singing through his body from a firm slap to his ass. He coughs and busies himself with picking some edamame and carries them over to an unoccupied cushion, settling down and watching the couples pair up.

Marzia seems to be content watching the others as well but there is something like longing in Elio’s chest as he observes two girls, one tall, willowy and blonde and the other a little stockier, blonde as well. They seem to be very comfortable, the smaller girl giggling in the arms of the other, sharing soft whispers and touches while the taller girl starts to pull ropes out of her bag.

And then there is Roxanne. Wearing only tights, a shirt and panties, she steps up to the biggest suspension point, a bamboo log stretched between ropes, lifting herself up, stretching her entire body, making Elio very aware of the fact that she has pierced nipples as well.

What is it with him and liking girls with pierced nipples anyway?

Oliver comes closer, walking past Elio with a smile on his face and approaches Roxanne, stepping up behind her and grabbing her hips, lifting her from the log down onto the mattress. And now he recognises them. The way she leans into Oliver suggests a friendship or maybe more. Play partners at least. He has seen them at the party on Wednesday; her leaning into him like she does now, completely relaxed and smiling.

And for a moment, just one very stupid moment, Elio wishes. Of course she is beautiful and he wants to touch her, to listen to her moan his name. But in this moment, as Oliver starts to attach ropes to her in those practised, easy movements…

He doesn’t want her. He wants to be in her place. And maybe it should frighten him, this powerful longing for this kind of security, this level of trust but somehow. It doesn’t.

 


	3. (Do I wanna know) if this feeling flows both ways?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep talks between two best friends at a bondage event
> 
> And a message that sets things in motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments <3  
> They make my day

The music is chill and calming, sensual and wraps around Elio like the softest cashmere blanket, comforting and more than most people could ever afford. He can’t help but watch them, the easy way Oliver is moving in his dress shirt and the trousers, as if he has practised this a thousand times. Roxanne is arching and stretching, it looks like a dance, her movements fluent and playful, and a grin evident on her face.

From over here on his comfortable perch on the cushion he can see and hear them very clearly, the breathy giggles, the lovely deep laugh that he wants to hear closer than he admits to himself. Oliver’s muscles move when he toys with the rope, attaching it to a leg, wrapping and securing, holding her, pliant in his arms. He is so strong, so careful. And he is beginning to sweat which shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, but the shirt starts to cling to his skin and his hair slightly curls at the base of his neck which makes Elio want to grab and pull at it.

“Elio, are you still with us?” Marzia asks softly and he starts, looking up at her. The hammock is currently occupied so she moved closer without him noticing. This is seriously starting to become a problem. He chooses not to answer for a few moments, sipping at his drink and listening to the soft noises of enjoyed discomfort that Roxanne is making. It is a lot, watching all those couples and feeling a longing for something like this.

Marzia pokes him and he sighs, nodding so she can quit looking so worried. “I am fine” he whispers back and closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and opens them. And sees Oliver looking at him. He is holding a bound Roxanne in his arms, ropes beautifully patterned across her legs and her upper body. A smile is curving his lips upwards and Elio can see him mouthing his name. Fuck him.

“You need to get laid. Or bound. Preferably by him so you can stop this fucking pining.” Her whispering is meant only for his ear but to him it sounds as if she is shouting at him. Yes, he is bisexual and yes, he has _eyes_ but he should stop sitting here and staring like a lost puppy just because someone who is exactly his type (everyone’s type really) is occupied with a girl. Jealousy would be too much but it doesn’t necessarily feel pleasant.

“You too, Marzia. Do something or stop pining after Chiara, it is tragic to watch” he shoots back and satisfies himself with watching Marzia blush to the roots of her hair and sputter, which happens almost never and to see her this flustered when he is normally the awkward one out, makes him feel oddly powerful. “She likes you too. Really” he adds softly and watches one of the riggers all by themselves, busy attaching a beanbag to a bunch of ropes. It looks like a lot of fun and very experimental.

Elio busies himself with the remainder of his drink while Marzia is oddly silent beside him, probably thinking about what he said to her.

This thing with Chiara has been going on for a while, this crush, this silent longing, not the loud words Elio uses, the brash movements, the occasional grabbing of unsuspecting crotches. Marzia, for all her lewdness, is very cautious when she falls in love, cupping her heart in her hands like a small bird fallen out of its nest, guarding it fiercer than any dragon. But Chiara, with her smell of cherries and her shy smiles has somehow managed. If anyone, it would surely have been her.

It is getting dark and he watches the slowly sinking sun setting the sky aflame and the view is fucking beautiful. If he had a flat like this, he would sit on the balcony every summer evening and watch the sunset while maybe enjoying a glass of wine and a nice dinner cooked by his partner because he can’t cook for shit.

The girls that he saw at the beginning of the evening are chilling on a mattress next to the person with the beanbag, easy whispered talk flowing between them. They all seem very close and tactile, touching at all times, like his mother and father do when he pretends not to see them cuddling on the sofa.

The evening is very calm, he mostly watches the others, not really taking part in anything although a very sweet couple asks him if he wants to come join the slowly developing cuddle pile on the biggest cushion. He is sorely tempted, especially when Roxanne waves at him with a soft smile and Oliver is stretched out, his long limbs extended and abused as cushions by several people. He must have changed, wearing a green dress shirt instead of the blue and still looking devastatingly handsome. Smiling up at Elio like it is no big deal. With his slightly sweaty hair and his charming crow’s feet.

So yes, Elio is tempted. But also very tired, yawning and rubbing at his eyes occasionally. Time zones still kick his ass, even though they’ve been here for two weeks now, for a bit of a holiday stint. So he slowly gets up and stretches, yawning again. It was a nice experience and he really wants to come back and if it is only for watching the others have a good time.

So he starts to say goodbye to everyone, leaning across bodies to hug Roxanne and thank her for the wonderful evening, the show and the invitation. He notices faint red marks through the material of her thighs but she seemed to have enjoyed it a lot. She hugs him back as good as she can and smiles at him.

“I would love for you to come back, Elio. You as well, Marzia. I hope you two liked it as much as we liked your presence. I won’t be here next week but I think you can come anyway, right, Oliver?” she asks and her tone is amused, playful.

“Oh, I don’t mind at all. You two are always welcome to my humble abode. Marzia. Elio.” Oliver replies and his lips curve up to a smile, his eyes fixed on Elio while he says his name or is it just a trick of the light, a stupid longing from deep inside his chest?

Marzia seems to have recovered and nods, grinning widely and thanking them as well, before they get dressed and head down the corridor to the elevator. Elio has to centre himself, taking a couple of deep breaths, heat very present in his cheeks, his entire body.

“You have never liked somebody as fast, Elly. I hope you know what you are doing” Marzia remarks once they are out in the open, the childhood nickname comforting and embarrassing all at once and Elio shrugs his cardigan back on, looking at the moon overhead. So different but still the same moon that shines down on Crema.

“Don’t worry about me, Marzia. I will be careful” he mollifies her and hears his phone vibrating a few blocks away from the place they are staying at. Carefully, he fumbles it out of his pocket and on the screen a message lights up.

_(Unknown):_

_Good evening Elio, this is Oliver._

_Roxanne gave me your contact information. I hope that you don’t mind. I was wondering, since she is busy with a photo shoot next week and the girl I usually ask to be her replacement is sick, if you would like to be my bunny for next week. We could meet beforehand and talk, if you feel comfortable with it. Looking forward to hearing from you._

_It was lovely to meet you._

_Oliver_

So much for being careful.


	4. Only fools fall for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is going to happen. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, they mean so much to me <3
> 
> Next chapter the real deal starts, this is just the path to an inevitable connection

Elio is stretched out in the rented bed, face pressed into the pillow, as he contemplates what to do with the message, what to answer Oliver. Marzia suggested the obvious, that he should agree so that she finally can have peace from his longing sighs and stunned stares. As if he is behaving like a horny teenager around Oliver. She is wrong. He is an adult and most certainly not pining for a man he has met exactly twice.

Of course Oliver is attractive, has a nice laugh and is very charming but that is everything there is to it. Simple lust, physical attraction to large hands, bronzed skin and a fit physique. Marzia with her caution is very wrong. There is nothing to it but physical attraction. Still, it can’t explain the beating of his heart as he lifts his head from the pillow to look at the message again, at the last sentence.

_It was lovely to meet you._

Marzia is snoring across the room as he starts to contemplate what to answer. Oliver’s message is ridiculously formal, so different from all the abbreviations Elio is used to. The least Elio can do is answer him, Oliver deserves as much for being so forward and charmingly brave. So he nods to himself and starts to type, heart hammering in his chest.

_(Elio):_

_Hello Oliver._

_Thanks for the message. I didn’t expect you to write me to be honest but I am very flattered anyway. So, about your offer: pretty forward, Oliver. It would be cool though. Watching you was very interesting._

_When and where do you want to meet?_

_Best_

_Elio_

He hits _send_ before he can back off, promptly shutting his phone off and dropping it onto the mattress. A groan escapes his throat and he buries his face in the pillow again to hide away, to shut off the world. What the fuck did he get into? Sleep is almost impossible to think about now, with his thoughts circling around every possible outcome of this whole situation.

But somehow he must have finally found sleep because the sunlight hits his eyes as soon as he opens them. Drool gathered in a little puddle on his pillow and he is very sure that he has a crease imprinted onto his cheek, his hair in disarray. Lovely. His joints creak when he stretches, yawning widely. Marzia is still asleep, her limbs splayed in true starfish fashion, her curls wild on the pillow.

Slowly he rolls out of bed and with a dull _thunk_ something hits the soft blue carpet under his feet. His phone. He almost forgot about it after he tossed it away in a panic yesterday evening. With shaking fingers he picks it up and switches it back on. Why is he this nervous? There is not a single reason. His phone boots back up and there is one missed message.

_(Oliver):_

_Good morning Elio_

_Thank you for your quick reply. May I call you? I suppose that you are still asleep so please do inform me when you get this message as I am more comfortable to talk to you almost in person than via messages. Thank you again_

_I hope you slept well_

_Oliver_

He is so fucking considerate that it is almost annoying. With his stupid formality and his kind messages. _It was lovely to meet you. I hope you slept well._ What the hell is his deal? Elio gets up, fishing for his headphones while he struggles into a white shirt. The kitchen would be best for talking so he doesn’t disturb Marzia. So, clad in a pair of striped boxers and the shirt, he pads into the kitchen, sitting down at the table and inserting his headphones.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself before pressing the little phone symbol next to Oliver’s name. A few seconds of dialing and he is so close to just hanging up but then there is Oliver’s voice, asking who it is. He sounds amused, as if he knows who is calling and this is just a little game for him. Elio looks out of the small kitchen window into the city while he takes a couple of deep breaths, calming his heart that is beating way too fast inside his chest and says his name into the silence between them.

“Elio”, Oliver repeats and just that one word, his name in that deep timbre. It sounds like so much, everything and nothing all at once. “You called,” he continues and sounds so pleased, so happy about this simple fact that Elio’s stupid heart skips a beat.

Physical attraction. Nothing more.

“Of course I did. How could I decline such an offer and from the master of the house himself?” Elio shoots back and grins, leaning back in his chair and letting his foot swing back and forth lazily. “I want to come. For your amazing snacks and a talk about what we could do. What _I_ want to do.”

Oliver chuckles on the other end and Elio likes the sound way too much, likes his amused voice as he agrees to a casual lunch in Oliver’s flat and a possible session afterwards or maybe a day later, depending on how Elio feels. Likes the way he asks Elio what kind of wine he drinks, if he prefers chocolate over vanilla when it comes to desserts, what kind of music he listens to normally, likes the way Oliver is apparently very interested and taking notes of what he is saying.

Likes that he leaves the reins in Elio’s hands, leaves the choice to him, the possibility to still say no. They agree on Tuesday for lunch and possibly Tuesday evening for the session. When Oliver ends the call, Elio can’t help but jiggle his foot harder, smiling down at his phone. Someone so considerate and mature, experienced in the field, willing to listen to a veritable greenhorn.

Marzia steps into the kitchen, yawning wildly and stretching so much that her shirt rises up. She blinks and watches him, rubbing at her eyes. “I heard you talking to someone on the phone. Guessing by your smile, it was Oliver and you two hopeless fucks agreed on a date?” she teases him gently. “Well, you are the hopeless fuck, he apparently knows exactly what he wants.”

Elio scoffs but he knows that she is at least partly right. He doesn’t want her to be right but he is very bad at hiding his racing heart on Tuesday morning when he drinks way too much coffee with slightly shaky hands. It is just a casual lunch, nothing more, nothing less.

But, when the elevator rides upwards and he watches himself in the reflective surface, his slightly less messy curls, the apricot shirt, his favorite pair of jeans, his fingers nervously playing with a string hanging from his sleeves, he cannot think of anything to make the rising heartbeat go away. He is going to be alone with Oliver.

A whole evening.

He takes a deep breath and nods to his own reflection, getting out of the elevator before it begins to descend again and there is the door. Number 63 in gold on Mahagoni. Fuck this. He is doing this. Oliver invited him. Nothing is going to happen. So, he stretches out his finger and rings.

The door opens after a few seconds and Oliver is standing there, a smile on his face and a fucking apron patterned with flowers hanging from his neck, hugging his form in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hugging his trained arms and it's just so much to take in. "Elio" he says. "Welcome back. Do come in and leave your shoes on the rack, please. I hope you are okay with handmade pasta."

Elio is so fucking okay with everything about this situation. So he comes in and the door closes behind him.

"Thank you for this, Elio", Oliver says and Elio just smiles and shakes his head, staring at his retreating ass in those trousers, briefly very distracted but following Oliver after taking his shoes off. The smell gets even more tantalising the closer he gets to the kitchen and he starts watching Oliver, bent over one of the pots, concentrating on his stirring.

"Not a problem at all", he manages and leans against one of the polished counters, concentrating on everything but Oliver.

Because his last sentence is a lie.

This is definitely going to become a problem.


	5. Only fools do what I do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where everything kicks off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait :)

Oliver smiles up at him, lifting his gaze from the pot and wanders over to the fridge to get the dough and a bottle of wine. It must be coincidence because this is Elio’s favorite type of wine; even the brand is the one he always chooses at his local grocery store. Oliver hands him a glass and their fingers touch briefly, their eyes make contact and a smile plays around full lips.

“So, what do you do when you are not traveling all over New York and visiting kinky parties?” Oliver asks and his eyes have an almost playful shine to them. He leans closer and Elio takes a sip to calm his heart while soft jazz is playing from the radio, one of those pieces that look as if they are vintage but are highly modern. He should have known that Oliver is the type of man listening to this sort of music.

Carefully Elio places the wineglass onto the counter and hoists himself up, dangling his legs idly while he watches Oliver make the ravioli. He sure is never going to compare to Mafalda but it smells mouthwatering. “I transcribe and compose music mostly. I play the guitar and piano. My family owns a country home close to Crema, a small town south of Bergamo, so I spend my summers and my winters there” he replies and follows every single step with interest. Oliver seems to know what he is doing, humming and pulling the sauce off the heat.

“That sounds wonderful. I was in Milan six years ago, when I was 20. I honestly had the time of my life” Oliver tells him and there is that far too attractive smile again. “My main job is studying old languages and the origin of words. It honestly is fascinating how much languages have changed over the course of millennia. How some languages have developed out of a single one.”

He swirls the pasta through the sauce as he speaks and seems to come alight with this topic, his posture changing into something more open, even more confident.

Elio busies himself with bringing his wineglass to the table and sitting down to watch the rush of the city to ignore the rush of his blood, his pulse hammering in his ears, his chest. Oliver joins him after a few minutes, balancing two plates of food and the bottle of wine. “I planned chocolate soufflé as a dessert if you don’t mind” he adds and sets down the plate, refilling Elio’s glass and sitting down as well. “To a good session and hopefully having fun.” He raises his glass and Elio raises his own, basking in that smile for a moment, before mentally kicking himself and busying himself with stabbing a raviolo rather forcefully before shoving it into his mouth.

It tastes fucking amazing.

Sitting here, close to Oliver and eating the handmade ravioli, drinking his favorite wine, it makes the whole situation so mind-numbingly real. They sit in amicable silence, just enjoying the food, the dessert that almost makes him have a tastegasm with the way the rich taste of the chocolate hits his tongue and he is determinedly not thinking about what is going to happen. Trying to push away all those stupid feelings that he is not supposed to have. It is physical attraction; there is nothing more. He is _not_ falling for someone after meeting them for the third time just because they are an amazing cook and smell good.

This is not happening.

Oliver is cleaning up after lunch and humming a song to himself. Elio recognizes it as _The Night We Met_ and sighs softly. It never fails to make him feel sad somehow. Even if he has never met someone like that, who could take so much away. Has Oliver? Has he ever had his heart broken? He seems more like the type to break a heart rather than be on the receiving end of heartbreak. But you never know.

After cleaning Oliver invites Elio to sit down on the sofa with him. They sit so close that Elio notices his aftershave, this expensive, tantalizing smell that wraps around him, makes him feel a little dizzy and warm. He doesn’t know what he is going to do with himself once this is getting as close as he watched Roxanne and Oliver embrace, her almost encased in his grip, how much his body is going to act up.

“So, I just want to know what I can and cannot do with you. I am pretty tactile as a rigger and I want you to feel safe with me” Oliver starts and smiles at him, his posture open and relaxed.

Elio wishes he could be as relaxed as him but this is the whole exercise. To calm down and stay focused. His thoughts are racing but he tries to focus on the warmth next to him, on the steady beating of his own heart. A bit too fast but steady. “I don’t mind you being tactile,” he answers finally even though just the thought of Oliver so close to him makes his hands sweaty and his fingers shake slightly. “My family is pretty tactile as well, we hug all the time and spend rainy evenings cuddling on the sofa while my mom reads from old German books. She is a translator.” Why he is talking about his personal details so much still eludes him but somehow he feels safe to do so here.

“That sounds wonderful, being so close to your family” Oliver hesitates and there is something wistful in the way he says it. The shine has dulled a little but he slowly perks up again, looking at Elio with an amused glint in his eyes. “I hope you aren’t too stuffed because bondage on a full stomach isn’t very healthy. We don’t want you to puke all over my floors” he explains and grins slightly, cocking his head. Whatever it was, he seems to have overcome it and is back to his annoyingly charming self.

“I… wow, Oliver, way to kill the mood” Elio shoots back and leans back into the sofa, looking at Oliver, his head tilted back and there is a smile on his face. He just can’t help it. Especially when Oliver starts to laugh, the slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes getting even more pronounced. “But no. I feel fine. Your food was really good. I could have eaten more which means a lot coming from me. But I kind of knew that we would move quite a bit, so I decided to refrain myself from having seconds.”

“I am flattered” Oliver quips and grins at him, getting up and stretching slightly. “I am going to get changed into a shirt with a little more movement, because this one, while very flattering, is a little too tight” he explains and vanishes into the hallway, a door closing behind him.

Elio slumps into the sofa, snagging a pillow and hugging it to his chest. He has this very strong urge to text Marzia who told him to inform her if there was any trouble. But there is none, except a trouble of conscience. It has been a grand total of three times that he has met Oliver, this instant attraction is just his stupid heart feeling lonely and his brain switching into _Teenage_ _Elio_ _Mode_ whenever Oliver is close.

A noise makes him perk up again and he puts away the pillow just for Oliver to come back, wearing the blue dress shirt that he wore the first time they properly met. He is smiling at Elio and it is not a weird, masked smile, it is open and warm. “Okay. Ready?” Oliver asks and walks over to the mattress in the middle of the living room. It is big and looks comfortable, so Elio follows him, his heart thudding in his chest. Fuck, this is really happening.

“On your knees” Oliver commands behind him and places a hand on his shoulder, his palms warm and emitting a sort of tantalizing power. “We are going to find out the rest while we play, but right now I need you to kneel. Could you do that for me, Elio?” His voice is calm and very close to Elio’s ear and the way Oliver says his name, utters that command makes his legs go a little weak, so he sinks down to his knees, bowing his head out of instinct, hearing a chuckle above him. Oliver really is a lot taller than Elio, but he situates himself, arranging his limbs on the mattress.

“You don’t have to bow your head for me, but you are doing so well already,” Oliver praises him and Elio feels warm, pleased, grinning slightly. “I am going to touch you now. A general rule: If you feel uncomfortable and want me to go slower, I want you to say yellow. Please feel free to use it; it is your first time like this obviously. Is there any safe word so I know that you want to stop completely?” he asks, staying still behind Elio, waiting for an answer.

“I…” Elio has to think for a moment, confused but mostly distracted by Oliver’s warmth and smell but then he has an idea. “I know one. Heptaméron. That’s the book my mother is currently reading to dad and me” he suggests and grins slightly, wiggling his toes as he hears Oliver chuckle next to him. He feels so comfortable, which is odd, but with Oliver apparently anything is possible. And then he almost stops breathing because long legs wrap around his own, a trained, warm chest is pressing against his back and he can hear Oliver breathing close to his ear.

“Is this comfortable for you?” his deep voice rumbles, goose bumps break out on Elio’s skin and he nods almost too hastily, hearing another amused noise. “Fuck off”, he mumbles and feels Oliver laugh silently while his hand buries itself in Elio’s curls and pulls at them teasingly. It feels far too good for Elio not to lean back into his hold, grumbling slightly. Honestly. So mean.

“You are a sassy one, aren’t you?” Oliver notices with amusement and out of the corner of his eyes Elio notices the ropes he is pulling out of a very fancy leather bag. Fuck, this is happening. This is really happening. “I hope you have no problem with me touching your skin. It can happen once your shirt rides up while I bind you”, Oliver informs him casually and the slightly coarse material slides across Elio’s arms, preparing him to what’s to come.

Oliver carries power in his movements, the way he manhandles Elio so casually in his grasp, pulls the knots tighter, secures the rope. But there is gentleness as well, his fingers sliding over Elio’s skin, the way he is holding him, making sure he doesn’t collapse because Elio is pretty sure that he would if he weren’t held. This just feels… it feels like nothing he has ever experienced before. He feels grounded and calm despite the fact that someone is literally binding him. There is so much closeness in those movements, so much sensuality and he doesn’t mind being the one being cared for. Of course, blow jobs in back alleys, fun at parties but never like this. Never this much.

“Are you comfortable?” Oliver asks and lets his fingers slide under the rope running across Elio’s shoulders, correcting it with practiced movements, pulling at it playfully. “I could tickle you if I were mean but I am not going to do that” he allows with a grin and pulls again, making Elio collapse into Oliver’s warmth and he can’t help but take in the scent of aftershave, the sweat building up and his heart is racing in his chest. But he nods against Oliver’s leg, biting into it slightly.

Oliver must have gripped into the rope, because he hauls Elio up and looks into his eyes, making him whimper slightly. Not out of pain. It makes his brain go a little fuzzy, a headiness overcoming him. “You are impossible” Oliver points out with an amused voice and gently tugs at Elio’s curls. “I would spank you if I were allowed.”

And again, like the first time Oliver said something like that, it sparks something in Elio’s brain, fantasies of bound hands and legs, a pale ass in the air, the sharp slap of a paddle or a large, bronzed hand and… shit, Oliver just has an effect on him. Which is not supposed to happen. Not happening. But apparently his body decided to be an asshole today.

He hears a chuckle and feels warm hands touching the soft pink fabric separating skin from skin, a sliver of exposed skin near his hips. His breath stutters and he has to concentrate so much to not shudder in pleasure.  “Oh,” Oliver utters and sounds so fucking pleased with himself. “Are you hard, Elio?”

“Fuck off” he repeats to no avail and closes his eyes in embarrassment. “I have hormones and a libido, alright?! It happens to everyone. Don’t flatter yourself, Oliver,” he grumbles and sighs, leaning back into the warmth behind him despite his protests. Oliver is so mean, honestly. It is just simple attraction. Stupid teenage lust from years ago suddenly raises its head again. That has to be the only possible explanation to this bullshit.

“I like you,” Oliver suddenly confides, taking Elio completely off guard. “You are just the right brand of sassy and witty. It’s refreshing,” he continues while slowly loosening the knots, untying a very flattered Elio carefully.  “Would you like me to hold you after this? Everyone needs something different after a scene. I like being held but I don’t know what it’s like with you,” he explains and smiles against Elio’s ear, pulling at the rope to free it from the knot. He is still so close that Elio can feel his heartbeat, can smell his aftershave, the slight scent of sweat, the peppermint toothpaste he used after eating. It’s so human.

“I… I would like you to hold me, yeah. Holding would be nice,” he answers and relaxes while the ropes slide across his skin, touching naked arms and the exposed skin of his abdomen. It feels nice. Odd but nice. Like lying in Oliver’s arms, being held in a manner resembling a couple, lazily reorganizing the ropes while the chill music still plays in the background. It feels warm and safe, calming still.

“You were fantastic,” Oliver praises him and his fingers card through Elio’s black curls. “I am looking forward to our session on Saturday. Very much so,” he says and puts the ropes back into the bag, still holding Elio in his arms. “Are you ready to go home? I can walk you to the door if you’d like,” he offers.

“You are such an old school gentleman, Oliver” Elio points out and carefully rolls of off Oliver, his hand accidentally on purpose sliding against Oliver’s crotch. A small gasp and a chuckle, but that is all Elio can get out of Oliver, much to his dismay.

“I just have _manners_ , Elio” Oliver shoots back and grins up at him, getting up with a little difficulty and it makes Elio oddly proud of himself. To invoke that kind of reaction in a man like Oliver. In a man who is so old school, such a gentleman that he walks Elio to the elevator and waits for him to get in. “Have a wonderful evening with your friend and give her my greetings,” he says and steps back from the doors. “See you on Saturday.”

The doors close behind Oliver and Elio is left to stare into the reflective surface of the elevator, his heart skipping a beat. This has been unlike anything he has ever experienced and he is still thinking about it on the way home, still thinking about it when he enters the small flat they have rented and walks straight to the bedroom to calm his racing thoughts.

Marzia is lying on her bed, looking up from her phone as Elio flops down onto the covers with a drawn out sigh. She cocks her head and watches him for a moment. “That bad?” she finally asks carefully and shuts off her phone when Elio sighs again, turning around and burying his face in the pillow, replying a very muffled:

“Worse.”


	6. Feels like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is product placement, nosy parents and a little bit of homesickness  
> (and maybe the slightest hint of the catching of possible feelings)
> 
> (also Elio is a messy bisexual even though Oliver technically doesn't show his face in this chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewatched the movie for some more inspiration and noticed the illy caffè cans on Anchise's table
> 
> my mum used to drink it when I was little, which is now over 15 years ago, so I was gripped by a sudden wave of amusement and nostalgia and had to include it
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments :*

It’s not like Elio wouldn’t have seen it coming. Oliver is attractive, is exactly his type. _More like everyone’s type_ as Marzia so helpfully pointed out. But now there is attraction and his body reminding him that he likes having Oliver close. Everything about it is of course strictly physical. His reaction to Oliver’s aftershave, his warm touch and his presence, his power. It happened way too fast for it to be anything but physical but he can’t stop his heart from racing when his phone pings with a message from Oliver.

_(Oliver):_

_Dear Elio,_

_I wanted to thank you again for being my bunny so voluntarily. You did amazing and I am very proud of you! Could you maybe arrive an hour earlier than the usual time on Saturday? Just to prepare for the evening. You can even raid my fridge if you so desire. I do think bribing you with good food and wine is the way to go._

_Looking forward to having you in my ropes again._

_Oliver_

Elio can’t help the smile that is tugging at the corners of his lips. Fucking Oliver and his charming ways. His easy, almost teasing tone that even carries through the messages he sends Elio. Even after only a grand total of three times of meeting him, once only for a few seconds, the way Elio feels is very real. They are technically nothing more than strangers or maybe acquaintances. Maybe Elio should call him that rather than a stranger because Oliver has touched him and they’ve been closer than he has been to anyone for the three months after the breakup.

He is not the biggest romantic, even though his parents are the epitome of it, loving each other like teenagers on their tenth date. Maybe he’s been jaded by it, not expecting to ever find a love like theirs. So he has resigned himself to meaningless fucks without a real attachment or fleeting make-out sessions. Of course he likes Marzia but what they had were summers filled with sex and fun times but nothing too close. He loves her, he really does but not in the way some people think.

And there is the whole Marzia and Chiara business. Of course Marzia wanted to hunt down someone in New York because she is scared of the possible repercussions if she were ever to tell her friend that she is in love with her.

It’s a pretty stupid executive decision in Elio’s opinion but he isn’t faring much better with fighting against his own feelings. Against the lust cursing through his veins, against the shaking of his fingers while he picks up the phone to do what? Write back? Or call? Too many thoughts spent on an action that should be as easy as breathing. There is nothing between them but some rope action.

In the end he decides to not answer at all. It would be inane anyway. It was only information and he doesn’t need to reply to that. Even though the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his mom is scolding him gently, he puts the phone away and sets off to make a rather late breakfast.

Marzia steps into the kitchen, her hair still mussed from sleep and she rubs her eyes, yawning and stretching while her shirt rides up. It is so utterly normal to see her like this, still sleepy and mumbling a tired _merci_ into the cup of coffee he offers her. Before, it was sex at night or hiding away in the old tower but now it is easy friendship, a toast stolen from the toaster and crammed into a waiting mouth.

She has no manners early in the morning, before her first coffee, which is very human and very amusing. Oliver would. He would eat his toast without making a mess, apologizing for any crumbs and politely ask for coffee and an egg.

And why the fuck is he suddenly thinking about Oliver again? He decides to firmly bury those thoughts in the depth of the glass full of preserved apricots he took with him from Italy. The sweetness explodes on his tongue and he hums appreciatively, tasting the warmth and the summer, the rainy days, his mom’s laughter, his lake. A taste of home.

Finally their table is set and Marzia has made no move in dressing in anything but her pajamas, her hair up in a lazy bun, while she blearily sips at her second cup of coffee. It has also traveled to America with Elio. Good, old illy caffè from home, best without any sugar or milk, enjoyed with a cornetto that spills powdered sugar all over Elio’s trousers or the opulent breakfasts Mafalda and his mother create.

Here they have toast, fruit and raspberry jam, unused American pancake mix in the cupboard and coffee. Not much, but they don’t need much. Italians normally never eat a proper breakfast anyway and Elio wanted to try other things. Marzia wasn’t happy and she was the one who snuck in the pancake mix in the end.

His phone rings in the middle of breakfast and he scrambles to pick it up, almost stupidly disappointed that the caller ID is not the one he somehow hoped it would be. He excuses himself and gets up, smiling nonetheless at the loving voice of his father. Marzia points at herself and mouths at him to send greetings before he walks into the direction of the hallway.

“Elly-Belly!” his dad greets him and the reception crackles a little as he is still in Crema. He sounds a little tired but still cheery and warm. “How is New York treating you, my son? Annella and I miss you but we know that you are a very responsible adult. I don’t know where you get it from…”

Elio can hear his mom laughing in the background and her voice demanding that Samuel greets her favorite son. He doesn’t even try to hide his smile, stepping out onto the tiny balcony. “I am your _only_ son, maman,” he tells her and knows that his dad has him on speaker because her laughter that is so much like his is clearly there in the background.

The city is rushing past below his feet and he misses the calmness of their country home for just a moment. “New York is amazing,” he finally answers his dad’s question. “It’s loud and it’s colorful and there is so much music. Sometimes it overwhelms me but luckily Marzia is here. I am supposed to send you her greetings by the way,” he informs his father who hums in understanding and asks to send greetings back, before he continues to talk.

“That’s good to hear, Elly. We are happy that you are happy but we miss you. We wouldn’t be your parents if we didn’t embarrass you and if only a little bit by telling you that we miss you,” his dad explains and Elio briefly thinks of Oliver’s face, the sadness in his eyes as Elio talked about the closeness he shares with his parents.

“I know. And I miss you guys too. It’s strange to be away from you in a time that I normally stay with you guys and Mafalda,” Elio isn’t shy to admit. “I wanted to thank her personally for the preserved apricots and the coffee but I couldn’t reach her. So please thank her from me.”

“I am going to. She keeps badgering your mother and me for news about you. She is afraid that you are going to come back thin as a rail and that she has to cook all your favorite meals in order to fatten you up,” Elio’s dad says and there is amusement so very clear in his voice.

Amusement that Elio wants to put on a shelf to look at like a pretty work of art or write music about, a jaunty, lovely piece, exactly how he sees his father. Warm loving, accepting, wise and slightly eccentric. He knows that not everyone can be as lucky as him with his accepting parents who love their son unabashedly, who are warm and open to each other even after years of marriage.

“I can imagine,” Elio says and grins into the receiver. “You know that I love you, right?” he asks softly and can almost hear his dad’s fond smile. “Of course we know, Elly. We love you too. Always remember that,” his father replies. “And we cannot wait to have you back home. Anyway, before you call me a sappy old man, have you made any new friends?”

Elio laughs and steps back into the hallway, watching Marzia clean up the table lazily, stacking the cups and plates. “You are just sappy sometimes, papà. But never an old man. And yes, I actually made a few new friends. They are all very open and nice, I think maman and you would like them. There is one guy in particular, who would fascinate you, I think.”

“Really? You think so highly of someone that you would say that he would fascinate me?” his dad asks and his tone is joking. Of course he is a highly coveted professor of history and has found his fair share of artifacts but he has never let fame get to his head.

“He studies old languages and their development into the languages we know today. I think you two could spend  _hours_ holed up in your study,” Elio replies and smiles at the thought of the intellectual discussions that would take place.

“Oh?! So… what is the name of this fascinating young man?” his father asks and there is fondness, amusement and warmth in his voice to which Elio huffs but still answers.

“Oliver.”


	7. You don't know what's in store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the struggle is very real and denial ain't just a river in Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much bellajoon98 and my lovely lovely Aceteroid who inspired me to continue this wonderful mess of a fic <3
> 
> Let me know what you think, my peeps ;*

So his parents know about Oliver now and what should feel strange definitely doesn’t. Oliver is an acquaintance; maybe something like a friend (with obvious benefits) and Elio has always had difficulties making friends his age because of his taste in music and leisure activities, so telling his dad about any fascinating new person he met is very rare but right now he feels like it. Maybe because he is excited.

(Maybe because it’s Oliver.)

Someone who hasn’t called him an old man for his love of transcribing sheet music like Marzia is prone to do. Someone who listens to him ramble on about his life, his interests. Maybe he should call Oliver a friend.

And maybe he should tell him. If it could stop feeling so weird. And if Marzia could stop waggling her eyebrows at him. It’s ridiculous how much she is invested in whatever this is.

In whatever he wants it to be.

What does Elio want it to be really?

And why is he asking himself this question?

It should be easy; knowing what this is. But Elio isn’t so sure anymore because after spending almost every day after the conversation with his parents contemplating his feelings and his thoughts, he doesn’t know what he wants anymore. This was supposed to be an easy holiday and now it’s all unnecessarily difficult, just because he met someone who captivates him, who just draws attention to himself.

Oliver is such a person. Without outwardly asking for it, his presence fills the room. He is very charming and handsome; his smile could easily get him anyone he wants but behind all that charm is someone who is intelligent, well spoken and has a certain amount playfulness to himself and Elio cannot help but _notice_.

He always notices.

He has an eye for beautiful things, an eye for the aesthetic and Oliver, despite Elio’s valiant efforts to ignore it, is beautiful. There is something about him, the blue of his eyes and the easiness of his smile, his tallness, his strong hands and the effortlessness with which he carries himself.

_As if he is daring you to desire him._

Plus there is this whole business of having the attention of this man. Elio doesn’t know why or how he managed to capture it but somehow he did, if the messages and the Tuesday meeting are any indication.

Adding to that, Oliver has asked him to be at his place an hour earlier than everybody else, preparing for the evening to come. He could have said no, there was no urgency in any of Oliver’s messages, still a window left for freedom and that is another reason why Elio appreciates him so much. Even though Oliver would be left alone without a partner, he didn’t pressure Elio to come, he just asked politely, if a little boldly (to which Elio still hasn’t answered) and wanted nothing in return.

Right now though there is no time left to think because despite his doubts, despite his racing thoughts, he is here for a reason. This hallway isn’t endless even though somewhere deep inside he wishes it was. There are so many questions still unanswered and Elio feels nowhere near ready for what’s about to happen. Funnily enough he felt more relaxed with just them, no one watching. When he hadn’t talked to his parents. When he didn’t lie awake, thinking about Oliver.

Stupid. This whole attraction is stupid. Fuck his hormones and just fuck his brain of getting fascinated so quickly. Well, it’s another part of his body that is _obviously_ interested in Oliver as far as his fantasies go. Normally, when he touches himself, he thinks of no one in particular, memories of nights and days and hasty moments shared, soft skin, sharp edges. But recently his fantasies have started to develop from blurry non-entities; they started to have distinctive features, blue eyes and large hands.

But as long as it stays just that, a dumb little fantasy, Elio has nothing to worry about so he should just do what he came here to do and stop standing around in the hallway like the world’s most awkward person. So he steels himself and walks over to the door, the golden number shining like a beacon.

 _Ring me_ the doorbell seems to call out to him like the cakes did to Alice after that fateful tumble through the rabbit hole. _Ring me_. His curiosity and excitement to see Oliver again win over his trepidation so he takes a deep breath and follows the silent command.

After a few seconds that seem like a lifetime, the door opens and Oliver greets him from the threshold, smiling and beckoning him in. What other choice is there but to follow? At least they are alone for a while.

So he follows and the door closes behind him.

“Are you alright? You didn’t answer my message so I thought you to be terribly busy or just staggeringly impolite,” Oliver admits from the kitchen where he is busy arranging something onto a plate. His tone sounds amused, not at all disappointed and his smile is playful, so playful that Elio has the quick thought of just biting it off his lips.

Fuck this.

He steps closer and softly swipes at Oliver’s back, not sure what he is doing but Oliver starts to laugh and strong hands grab his own, warmth radiating through his body from the touch and there is the stupidly charming smile again. “I didn’t want to offend you,” Oliver says softly and lets him go, turning back to the plate. “I am sure you had your reasons, Elio. I am not your keeper.”

“You didn’t offend me, not at all. I just sort of forgot, I guess. Which was rude, I know. But my dad called me from Crema and now he sort of knows about you”, Elio confesses in a rush, his body still reeling from the warmth of Oliver’s touch. “My mom as well. My parents are sort of nosy that way. I hope that’s not a problem.”

There is another smile, almost secretive, hidden away from his sight and Elio wishes he could see it fully but Oliver still seems to be occupied with preparing the plate. Finally he is done and turns around. Something in his eyes has changed; there isn’t only the endless charm he seems to ooze without realizing but something warm, almost soft, as well. “You told your parents about me? Am I that fascinating?” he asks, his tone amused and Elio huffs, crossing his eyes over his chest.

“My dad just asked about any friends I made and of course I told him about you,” Elio replies and there it is. The official title to whatever this is they have after a grand total of three (now four) times of meeting. “I am… I have always had a difficulty with making friends, so of course he wanted to know if I am only getting on Marzia’s nerves or if I’ve made any progress.”

“Friends. Yes, that sounds nice. I reckon you didn’t tell him the clandestine details of our _friendship_?” Oliver asks and sounds so amused again that Elio tackles him and hits his sides playfully, dodging from Oliver’s hands as he tries to tickle him in retaliation. There is something so simple about this, about just chasing each other around the living room like children.

Finally Oliver wrestles him onto the largest mattress in the middle of the room, underneath the biggest suspension point and grins down at him, hair flopping onto his forehead, Elio’s wrists in one hand, pressing them into the cover. “Do you yield?” he asks into the space between them and the corners of his eyes are crinkling, the crow’s feet back with a vengeance. “I promise that the punishment won’t be too harsh.”

Elio’s breathing comes in gasps, almost ragged from the experience but he manages to centre himself, even though the aftershave smells divine, the warmth is like his own personal sun and Oliver’s deep voice is so close to the shell of his sensitive ear. He looks up and takes in the sight above him, Oliver in his billowy blue shirt, the playful smile, the glimmer in his eyes, the way his hand grasps Elio’s wrists. “Fine, fine”, he grumbles and shuffles a little. “I yield. You win, you big strong man.”

Oliver smiles, almost a little too triumphantly and lets Elio go, walking to the kitchen to get them something to drink. He seems to contemplate something while he searches for water in his fridge, so Elio rolls around and gets up, joining him at the counter and leaning against the stone, watching Oliver move around.

“I can practically _hear_ you think, Oliver. Even though we haven’t known each other for a long time, I can see your cogs whirring. What are you thinking about?” Elio asks and takes the glass of water from him, thanking him softly while he doodles an invisible pattern onto the cold stone.

Oliver turns around, idly sipping from his glass, almost as if to stall his answer and strokes one long finger along the rim, which Elio can’t help but follow with his eyes. Then, finally, he looks up and takes a deep breath. “I know it’s probably very presumptuous of me to ask you this but … I wanted to know if you would do me the honor of accompanying me to a little get together at a local bar in two weeks time? If you don’t mind being collared. Just for the evening. You can say no, it’s just a thought I had.”

Elio gapes at him and takes a deep gulp from the blessedly cold water, is so glad that they are still alone while this is happening. “I… I don’t know if I am the right person for that. I mean, you have two very willing girls and you just met me,” he objects and looks at his glass, at the counter, anywhere but at Oliver. “I don’t know why I should be so special. Plus, we are leaving on Thursday the week after that and…”

“No, it’s fine, it was just a question. You don’t have to come, I would never pressure you into something you don’t want”, Oliver reasons quickly, his voice calm. “And I like you. That’s why I wanted to ask you. Simple as that,” he continues, pushes himself away from the counter and walks over to his leather bag, picking out ropes, running them through his fingers.

Fuck, he is so brave.

Braver than Elio has ever had to be.

He quickly drains his glass and walks over to him, carefully touching his shoulder, feeling the warmth underneath his fingertips, the movement of his muscles, his tendons. “Oliver,” he calls out his name softly, thinks about what Marzia said. How maybe getting it on with Oliver will stop this attraction, will nip whatever lust he harbors right in the bud. Just making out for the sake of making out, for releasing the tension he feels.

Oliver turns around and looks at him, calm blue eyes and dark rope in his hands, a questioning and maybe slightly hopeful look in his eyes.

This is now or never. Nothing can go wrong with this.

Right?

“I am going to accompany you. To that get together. And you can collar me. For one night.”


	8. I built your walls around me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio briefly slipping into subspace and yet again being a useless bisexual
> 
> (But this time he is not the only one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got surprisingly soft, my dudes, I hope you like it :)
> 
> also I want to thank you all for your unwavering support even if I am doing a niche topic in a rather small but growing fandom <3
> 
> you make my day ;*
> 
> aaaalso I bought the book, so expect some quotes strewn in here and there ^^

Elio gets the fascination with bondage now. All he wants is to touch Oliver but he can’t because his arms are bound to his body. All he craves is to stroke the soft, pink underside of Oliver’s arms that look like he has never had to do hard work a day in his life. All he wants is just a little taste but he can’t. He is both powerless and has all the power.

Even though there is a crowd watching them with avid interest, everything he notices is Oliver, their closeness, the warmth between them, the way his pulse spikes each time there is another touch, another stroke of rope against skin, of skin against skin.

“Are you comfortable?” Oliver breathes against his ear, voice deep and letting shivers run down Elio’s spine at the touch of a warm hand along the small of his back and all he can do is nod, completely pliant and as soft as butter in the sunlight.

He moves fluently, Oliver does. In all his slightly awkward tallness and inherent clumsiness, when he rigs, Oliver seems to be a different person, completely in control over what he does. It never stops to fascinate Elio. He knows that some of the riggers are more into the technical and aesthetic aspect of the whole thing but Oliver is more into the whole fun and sensuality behind it and Elio really _really_ gets it, especially the whole touching aspect. In his entire struggle against whatever it is that is brewing inside him, he wholly ignored, until now, how utterly nice it is to be touched by Oliver. His touch seems to leave a trail of heat on Elio’s sensitive skin.

Shit, this is not supposed to be happening. He cannot be succumbing to this feeling in front of all of them, he cannot possibly show how affected he is by all of this. By Oliver. The breathing behind him grows slightly heavier and strong hands grab Elio’s bound arms, manhandle him so that his face is facing the cover of the mattress, in a way that he is effectively trapped underneath Oliver and what a way to go. Elio could die happy, right here, right now.

What was it again?

 _La petite mort_.

If he feels like this right now, there are endless possibilities of the intensity that he is going to feel in two weeks, wearing a collar, being Oliver’s companion. It honestly scares him a little, maybe even a lot; he loses his breath for a moment. Large hands are caressing his arms, touching, always touching. The warm weight of Oliver’s chest leaning onto his back calms him down and he remembers what breathing is, sucks in a shuddering gulp of air, his heart pounding in his chest.

“It’s alright. I am right here, Elio,” Oliver whispers into his ear and for a moment it has nothing sensual, there is no lust setting Elio’s blood on fire, there is just calmness, a sea of warmth and Oliver. “If you want to, I can untie you. There is no rush,” he ads and his fingers run up and down the ropes, toying with the loose ends. For one breathless second that feels like eternity he is holding Elio’s hand, gently squeezing it to see if he can respond properly, if any appendage has gone numb.

Elio can’t respond, has forgotten what speaking is and can’t possibly react to anything but the haze in his brain screaming _he held my hand_. But despite his sudden inability to function, Oliver stays calm, rubs his arms and breathes with him; the rhythm so soothing that Elio cannot help but breathe in tandem with him. It is as if someone has effectively shut off his brain. And despite his anxiety, despite his problems with trust, he closes his eyes and just lets himself fall into the feeling as if sinking into the softest mattress, the darkness enveloping him like a blanket.

Slowly he comes to, recognizing the voices and the smell above him, the music that still plays around them, a soft melody in the background almost like white noise. The ropes are gone from his arms and there is an actual blanket placed on top of him, soft and grey like a cat’s fur. There is something warm supporting his head and he tries to swat away whatever there is playing with his hair even though it feels far too good. Just. His hair is a big no to anyone he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t know this person.

Or does he?

“You’re back. Hello,” an amused voice from above him says and Elio blinks into the dimmed lights of the room, up into eyes that remind him of the ocean, far too amused, teasing almost. Oh. He knows the person. And is embarrassed right away for falling apart like that. In front of Oliver of all the people it could have been. “You just went under and I deemed it the best to make you as comfortable as possible,” he explains, his hand retracting from Elio’s hair (and Elio almost makes an embarrassing sound at realizing just how _nice_ it had felt to be touched by Oliver). “I never asked you what you needed but as you said, you are fine with touching and I just assumed that you would be okay with this and …”

He is nervous. Unflappable, far too attractive Oliver is actually nervous and it is oddly endearing. “It’s fine. Really,” Elio explains (well more like mumbles because shit, Oliver’s legs are as comfortable as he expected and the closeness to his crotch does its additional work) and tries a smile up at him. It seems to work because Oliver smiles back and calms his rambling. “Actually, I could just fall asleep right here and Marzia would have to carry me home. You fucker are just too comfortable,” he quips and there is another soft tugging at his curls, a full mouth curved up into a smile.

His heart actually decides to skip a beat right at that very moment.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are surprisingly rude, Elio?” Oliver asks him and again he sounds so fucking amused, so teasing and it should annoy Elio because normally he hates it when people make fun of him, he hates it with a burning passion, to be belittled, to be seen as less knowledgeable just because he is still younger than someone should be with his extensive knowledge. But this just sounds like genuine, friendly teasing, not callous or hurtful. As if Oliver knows him better than he knows himself.

“You have told me. Twice now,” Elio replies and closes his eyes again, his limbs feeling as if he is floating in a sensory deprivation tank, only the endless darkness in front of him, only silence, only calm and he says what he feels because he wants to be truthful, he wants to _speak_.

“I am staying right here. This is heaven.” 


	9. Oh, will wonders never cease?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things move forward as our protagonists meet in a museum
> 
> (there is also wanking) (and discussions about olive oil)
> 
> (and Elio discovers that he can be one hell of a jealous person)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for reading and liking my little fic
> 
> for anyone who's just discovered my writing, hi and thank you for taking the time to read this on one go <3333
> 
> and  
> trashfortimmy  
> you talked about the sexual tension killing you?  
> wellllll....

“You like him.”

It’s straight to the point as Marzia tends to be and it catches Elio very much off guard, to the extent that he almost stumbles on the very even sidewalk on their way back to the flat they’re staying in. He blinks at her, still a little dazed, still feeling the lingering warmth Oliver’s touch left behind. Doesn’t really know what to answer her, so he continues walking, feels her gaze basically burning holes into his cardigan. Thinks about it and stops to look at her.

“He is nice, yes. I still don’t get him, but he is not the worst person I have ever met,“ Elio finally gives in with a tilt of his head. There were worse people, way worse than Oliver and his entire … being Oliver. Even if he confuses the hell out of Elio, he isn’t Maynard, the one that visited last summer and followed Elio around like a forlorn puppy.

Marzia has the audacity to giggle at his emotional turmoil and he frowns at her until his lips start to twitch and a grin spreads across his face. He cannot stay mad at her for too long. “ _He is nice_ ,” she echoes and waggles her eyebrows while fishing her keys out of her bag. “Just say that you want to fuck him.”

Elio sputters and follows her up the stairs, trying to protest but not coming up with any counterarguments. Everything would just sound like he is deflecting and she is partially right anyway. Oliver is very attractive and has certainly crept into Elio’s fantasies more than once. There is nothing wrong with indulging your cock once in a while but it needs to stay that way. Masturbation, touching, rigging and whatever he is going to experience at that get-together have to tide him over before he does something stupid like jump into Oliver’s arms the next time they meet.

Oh he wants to, he certainly does. There is no use in denying it.

He wants to touch, to taste; he craves it like a thirsty man would crave water in the desert. It shouldn’t happen this way, it is far too early for him to develop this kind of fascination. It almost feels like obsession but he knows that it can’t be. This is simple lust, paired with the fact that he hasn’t been intimate with anyone in over three months. Plus just the way Oliver is, way too fucking charming and just so stupidly attractive. There is no way that anyone can meet Oliver and doesn’t grow to like him right away. Marzia fell victim to it and Elio more than certainly did too.

Standing under the shower after Marzia has left it to him with the drawing of a dick on the fogged-up mirror and a mischievous grin creeping along her lips, his hands stray downwards and a sigh escapes his lips. Once he starts touching himself, the water pattering onto his head, his body, muffling the sounds; an image pops up, unbidden but certainly not unwanted.

Oliver, kneeling in front of him, hair wet from the shower, white shirt clinging to his obviously glorious body. His eyes trained onto Elio’s face, pupils blown and only a small circle of blue forming a rim around them. He forms Elio’s name with his full lips and Elio’s hips stutter, his breathing shudders. He barely stops himself from moaning out Oliver’s name by thinking about what Marzia would say if she could hear him. If she knew that he was thinking of Oliver, fully dressed and drenched.

Elio’s feet slide on the tiles and he muffles a noise with his free hand, gripping the shower rod in order not to fall over. This again, this one specific thought? He is vulnerable but with all the power, with Oliver willingly submitting himself, kneeling for him, almost worshipping him. And if it is only a fantasy, he is willing to lose himself in it as much as he can. It certainly isn’t very long because the pull, the heat builds faster than it normally does and his toes curl, his eyes fall shut as he finally lets go, feels as if he is drowning, the water pounding in his ears. “Fuck…” he breathes and gasps, swallowing water and coughing. This is why he normally does not masturbate under the shower.

He turns off the water after washing off the traces and takes a deep breath to catch his bearings. Looking into the mirror shows him that he hasn’t suddenly changed even though he feels like it. Feels as if Oliver’s fingers on his skin have left visible markings, as if his desire is somehow clear to see in the lines of his face.

The night isn’t very long, spent tossing and turning from side to side. There is nothing. Nothing. He doesn’t know why he is panicking so much about this. Maybe Oliver stirred nerves in him that he never knew to exist before, nerves that produce far more disturbing pleasures than he is used to on his own. But is it really disturbing, is it wrong to desire someone with the naïve adoration virgins seem to possess? To desire Oliver the way a man desires another man, a human being desires another human being?

It is human nature to seek comfort in one another, may it be romantic, sexual or just for the sake of being close to someone else.

Maybe Oliver really is just a friend?

But friendship, as defined by everyone, is alien, fallow stuff Elio cares nothing for. What he really, truly wants is a secret even to himself but from the moment he first saw Oliver at the party, illuminated by the pulsating lights, he may have wanted what all humans ask of one another, what makes life livable.

Something that scares him to the bottom of his very soul but makes him oddly excited, so much so that he cannot possibly find sleep any longer. So what if he is a little wired in the morning while drinking his coffee and tapping his fingers in a rhythm unknown to anyone but himself?

So what if he basically runs to the underground station to catch the next train to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Monday? So what if he wants to distract himself from the direction his thoughts are rushing towards in the way he knows best?

Statues. Paintings. Books about people that are long dead, their bones turned to dust, their memories only found caught between old pages, turning yellow and fragile with age.

A welcome respite from the rush of the city even though people are busy queuing up and chattering in various languages. He recognizes German, Italian and something that sounds like Japanese, a mother and a daughter discussing in French over a map of the museum. A colorful mix of cultures and exactly what he needed to get away from the thoughts rushing through his brain.

Marzia has chosen to stay inside for today and call up her parents, call up Chiara, so he is blessedly alone without her judgment. She means well, of course she does, but it is very annoying to see her constant looks, to know what she thinks when she hears him talking about Oliver.

“Elio? Is that you?”

Speak of the devil. This amused, deep voice can only belong to one person. The very person Elio wanted to avoid today. But he turns around and there he is. Oliver in broad daylight, dressed in a green shirt and dark jeans that make his long legs look even longer. He is smiling as if seeing Elio is the greatest accomplishment of today and Elio cannot help but smile back. Seeing him here, in broad daylight, away from the parties and the workshop is a big change.

There they were safe, in a rather small confined space and at the party they didn’t get to know each other anyway. But out here, in the open, Elio feels more vulnerable than he’s felt the three times Oliver had him in his ropes. It doesn’t help that the light of the summer sun streaming through the windows makes Oliver look even more attractive if that were possible.

“Hi. Wanted to go to the museum too?” Elio almost accuses him and they move forward in the queue, Oliver so close that there is that warmth again, the smell of his aftershave. He didn’t ask for this but might as well enjoy it as long as it’s possible. As long as he can rein in his wildly inappropriate thoughts on where he wants to lick, suck or bite Oliver.

“Yes, funnily enough. I have a free day today so I wanted to venture out to my haunts. One of them is this museum and its exhibits. I promise to everything that is holy that I did not spy on you or want to stalk you,” Oliver explains and almost sounds as if he wants to placate Elio.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think that,” Elio rushes to reassure him while Oliver fishes out his wallet to pay for both of their tickets after waving off Elio’s concerns. “It is a gesture of appreciation, Elio”, he says and smiles his far too charming smile.

The man at the till seems to be affected by his smile too, blinking up at Oliver with wide eyes. So not only Elio isn’t safe, but others as well and what should be a reassuring thought turns into a wave of white-hot jealousy that almost overwhelms him. He sidles a little closer to Oliver without really noticing it until he feels warmth next to him. _Back off_ , his mind screams. _Back off, I saw him first. He has felt my skin under his fingertips; you are just sitting there, admiring him. Back. Off._

He blinks as he hears Oliver calling his name and looks up to see that Oliver has already moved away and is standing near a sandstone pillar. Elio shakes those hostile thoughts out of his head and scrambles to join Oliver who looks vaguely amused. Hopefully he didn’t notice.

“There you are. You can venture out alone, if you want to or you can join me,” Oliver offers after a beat of silence, leaning against the pillar. “It is your choice.” His eyes are trained onto Elio, so very calm and blue, seemingly okay with Elio ditching him after he just bought him the ticket.

“No, I am interested in what you like here. I have my historical preferences but you as a true New Yorker and a student of linguistics must sure know one or two interesting tidbits about this museum?” Elio can’t’ help but tease and judging by an amused huff Oliver took it in stride.

“Ah well, join me then,” Oliver states with an exaggerated bow, as if he is an extra in an Austen movie and walks ahead, his tall stature easy to pinpoint in the crowds. Elio speeds up to catch up to him and they follow the signs pointing them to the Greek exhibition. “I have always been fascinated by the Greeks and their view towards dating the same gender, especially in the form of having a relationship with a much younger man, even a teenager. It was fashionable back then, today it is seen as despicable. Those young men were often kidnapped from their homes and groomed to like the, very often, much older man,” he elaborates and looks at Elio.

They have stopped in front of an old vase and Elio cannot help but look at Oliver when he talks like this, so full of knowledge and opinion, doesn’t want to interrupt, just looks at the depiction of musicians on it as Oliver goes on, leaning a little closer than is maybe absolutely necessary, filling Elio’s nose with his scent.

“The main reason why olive oil sold so well was not because of dietary needs, it was for lubrication purposes. And of course there weren’t only those relationships, many of those we still read about in books were romanticized but Spartans celebrated same sex relationships and the most popular of course is that of Achilles and Patroclus from Homer's  _Iliad_ ," Oliver elaborates, seemingly far from being finished but Elio likes this, likes seeing the nerdy side of this suave man. “They were held to the highest regard. Alexander the Great and his closest companion and confidant Hephaestion were compared to them and Diogenes of Sinope once allegedly so wisely stated: _‘the only thing Alexander will ever yield to are Hephaestion’s thighs.’_ ”

He grins, seemingly delighted by this little history tidbit even if it might not be true and Elio feels intrigued by him and the whole talking about sex and thighs doesn’t help in calming down his raging libido either, so he takes a leap of faith. “Oliver?” he asks almost timidly as they are standing in front of a statue of Athena. “How do you know all that?”

Oliver turns around to look at him and smiles almost playfully. “It would take too long to tell you my whole curriculum here and it would distract from the art if we talked, so… how about a coffee after the tour? It doesn’t have to be anything other than that, don’t worry about it.”

Again.

Fucking considerate Oliver.

“No,” Elio replies and again, he _wants_ , so he _speaks_. “It’s a date.”

Oliver’s answering smile is almost blinding.


End file.
